Stand Tall
by S.S. Armageddon
Summary: Today is the anniversary of the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center. This story is dedicated to its victims, their families, and the real heroes of this tragedy.


I know the directions like the back of my own hand, longitude and latitude memorized by heart. When you do as much traveling as me, you tend to remember places you visit more than three times a day. But this time there's no need to dwell on the location, or what streets to take, or where to turn left. Even if I felt remotely lost, all I would have to do is follow the sirens.

The steel skeleton of the building rises up like some kind of unearthly creature emerging from a cold grave. The flames chew at whatever they can find, greedily devouring my surroundings. The ash, the smoke, it's suffocating, but it's not the reason why I suddenly can't breathe. And as I press my fists tightly to the sides of my head, only one word comes to my mouth.

"_God_."

I take a step forward. Then another, and another, until I'm running straight into the fire. Is this real? It must be. How could I possibly imagine this? How could anyone imagine this?

There is a scream from behind me. I stop in midstride, turning to see a woman and a teenage boy limping away from the carnage, arms wrapped around each other. The woman is shouting something me, though I can't fully understand what she is saying.

"Why weren't you here?" it sounds like. "Why couldn't you stop this?"

But they are gone before I can muster a response.

What can I say? How do I tell them that I could never have known, I could never have foreseen this happening?

This is beyond words.

Inside the ruined shells of the towers I see faces, faces everywhere. Some are set in a mask of stony resolve. Others contorted in anguish. Some are familiar. Others, I have never seen before. All of them so different save for their eyes – their eyes are all the same. All blank. Sorrowful.

Tails is here, hovering over the rubble, carting buckets of debris across the smoking pits. He struggles, they are too heavy for him. He doesn't care, returns to his work.

Amy is here, demolishing steel girders and concrete slabs with her hammer. Her expression is cold. I have witnessed Amy's wrath like no one else, but never have I felt more frightened of her than in this moment.

Even Knuckles is here, leaving Angel Island unoccupied. Because some things are beyond commitments and heritage. They ignite a spark within us that spurs us into action, no matter the extent our stubbornness or our pride.

I am here. They are here. To my own amazement, even my sworn enemy Dr. Robotnik is here, standing amongst the wreckage as a silent observer. His cheeks are moist with tears, and I realize then that some things surpass even boundaries and enmities. Because no matter how wicked they may seem, even the most despicable of human beings are still just that – human beings. They still feel. Still weep.

We weren't there to stop it. We could do nothing to predict this. But we are here now. In the chaos you cannot hear us, but we are here. In the smoke you cannot see us, but we are here. Powerful as we are, we offer little consolation in the darkness. In the shadows of these ordinary men and women, we are small and insignificant. These people, who face the fire without powers and abilities, without promise of ever returning, because they know they are needed. That there are others who need them beyond those flames, awaiting salvation.

Ordinary men, ordinary women, made extraordinary by acts of courage, compassion, and bitter sacrifice.

Shouts echo through the darkness, of disbelief, of pain, of sheer horror. For some, none of this has even registered. For others, the reality of the situation is almost too much to bear. They keep whispering to me, asking me questions and looking to me for guidance.

"Why did it happen? What could we have done to deserve this? What do I tell my children?"

They ask me why. Why? My God, why?

I have traveled to faraway worlds and dimensions. I have battled gods and seen things men can only dream of dreaming about.

But to my utter shame, I have no answers.

Why _did_ this happen? Do we relinquish our humanity, admitting to ourselves that in some way we had this coming? Or do we stand tall, refusing to accept the selfish accusations of religious extremists of every faction, knowing that however we have wronged, the sum of our transgressions is not equal to the price we have paid.

What _do_ we tell the children? Do we tell them that the face of evil is a foreign one, and to live in constant fear of it? No. Evil has many faces, and they can look just like yours or mine. It is the thought behind the face, one that enables people to enter a realm beyond imagination. Beyond what ordinary men and women can comprehend.

Perhaps all we can say is that we are sorry, that we couldn't give them the world that they deserve, and that we wish they didn't have to live in one where such tragedies are possibilities.

They speak of war. Speak of death. We feel a united rage, rage enough to conjure a storm. But in our rage we seem to forget how much good is truly in the world, and that evil is a vast minority, preying on the fear of the masses. War there may be, but we must drive out our anger and fear, and listen to the voice inside that reminds us that every war has innocents. The voice that says, you are a good and honest people. That tells us we must _never_ do what has been done to us. That if we do as they do, the war is lost before it has even begun. We must not let our fury cloud the fact that those we perceive as enemies are normal human beings.

In the past we have been separated by petty squabbles, beliefs and rules and laws. But in this, we are one. In despair, in resolve, as we recover and move on.

We could not predict this. We could not stop this. We were not here when it happened. But we are here now. We are with you. Today, tomorrow, and for the rest of your life. Where you go, we are beside you. When you breathe, we breathe with you. Wherever you are, our spirits are in you. You make our strength your own, and make our struggle for justice a reality. Because the future of the world does not belong to me and my friends, but to ordinary men and women such as yourself. You, the solitary individual, who is stronger and more courageous than you could ever imagine.

I find myself standing among the debris, smoking ruin about me. The flames. Weariness. Death.

And then I see something up ahead, buried partially beneath the wreckage. Taking several steps forward, I begin to see red and white stripes. Silently, I reach down and lift the tattered American flag out of the rubble. Its edges are scorched from the flames, its mast is battered and crooked. But here it is.

Gripping it tightly in both hands, I stab one end of the flag into the ground, then take a step back to watch the blackened banner rise in the hot wind.

This has not weakened us. It has only made us stronger.

My eyes on the flying colors, I place my right hand over by breast and inhale deeply.

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America…"


End file.
